Elizabeth refused to contemplate that ever taking place. She’d have Nat and the Craft, and nobody would stop her. Once they were married, and she was carrying Nat’s child, everyone would have to accept it.
How?
They would have to . . . elope.
Yes. She and Nat would have to run off together to be married. They could go someplace far away, like Providence, and live as man and wife there. Elizabeth was willing to go even farther if need be, to Boston or New York or even all the way back to England.
That would work. But Nat would have to be deeply in love with her. More than in love. He would need to be wild with the need to have Elizabeth, so much so that he would be willing to abandon his mother and the only life he’d ever known, for good.
Elizabeth didn’t know what spells could possibly affect a man so deeply, but she could find out.
3
PRUDENCE GODWIN MIGHT HAVE BEEN SILLY AT TIMES, always laughing and easily distracted, but she wasn’t stupid.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” Pru said one afternoon as summer drew on. “Keeping to yourself a lot.”
“I’ve been studying with Widow Porter.” Elizabeth hardly paid attention to her friend; her mind was filled with thoughts about the creation of a new spell. “Takes up a lot of my time.”
Pru crossed her arms. “You mean you’ve been spending as much time as possible running into Nat Porter.”
Embarrassment flushed Elizabeth’s cheeks—not at loving Nat, but at being so easily seen through. “We hardly see each other at all now,” she said. “Widow Porter makes certain of that.”
“And she’s not wrong to do it. You understand that much, don’t you, Elizabeth?” With a sigh, Pru propped herself on the fence, near where Elizabeth was contending with the milk cow. “Honestly, I can’t imagine what you’re thinking.”
Elizabeth’s little cousins had woken her three different times during the night. She hated milking the cow, which was stubborn and cross, and smelled bad. It had been days since she’d gotten more than a distant glimpse at Nat, which meant that it felt like years since she’d had any reason to be happy. Her temper got the better of her self-control, and she snapped, “I think the First Laws are stupid and ridiculous, if all they do is keep people who love each other apart!”
Pru’s eyes went wide. To deny the justice of the First Laws—it wasn’t done. But Elizabeth knew that wasn’t the part that had shocked her friend.
“Is Nat Porter in love with you?” Pru said, sounding incredulous. “Really and truly?”
No. Elizabeth knew he wasn’t. “Maybe my words were too strong. But he’s—he’s taken with me, Pru. It’s not like it was a few months ago. He sees me now.”
“What does that matter?” Now Pru hopped off the fence to come closer. “First of all, it wasn’t that long ago that Nat was thinking of marrying another girl. It’s not as though she spurned his affections. She’s sick, is all.”
“If he forgot her so quickly, then it wasn’t really love, was it?” Elizabeth demanded. She tried very hard not to remember that Nat’s only distractions from that other girl were the ones Elizabeth herself had caused. Soon she’d have the spells she needed; soon the love Nat would feel for her would eclipse anything he’d ever felt for Rebecca Hornby.
Pru hesitated at that. “Well. Maybe not. I wouldn’t know. But that’s beside the point. You can’t marry Nat. It’s impossible.”
“Impossible! Impossible! I hate that word.” Elizabeth had so rarely spoken her mind before. It turned out to feel glorious, like flying. “We’re witches! We melt ice in January and make it in July. We pull crops from barren fields. We bring the sick back from the brink of death. We take fire, wind, water, and spirit and turn them into our tools. Our playthings. So why do we spend so much time talking about what’s impossible? Nothing’s impossible, Pru, except that our rules make it so. I’m tired of those rules. Why aren’t you?”
For a few long moments Pru didn’t speak, and when she did, her voice was low and controlled, the way someone might talk to a horse that had been spooked. “You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m upset,” Elizabeth agreed, “but I’m thinking very clearly. I’ve never seen things so clearly in my life.”
“You can’t break one of the First Laws, Elizabeth. You can’t. You know that.”
“Or what? Widow Porter will scold me as though I were a bad little girl, take away my charms? Near as I can see, she can only do that if I let her, and I wouldn’t.”
Pru stumbled backward until she collided with the fence; her hands gripped it, and it seemed as if she were bracing herself against Elizabeth’s words. How shocking it must be to hear the truth, Elizabeth thought. But if Pru thinks about it, really thinks, she’ll see that I’m right.
“Elizabeth—please, please think about what you’re saying.” Pru’s lower lip trembled. “If you go against Widow Porter, you go against the coven. You’d be cast out. Friendless.”
“Why? Would you turn your back on me, too?”
Instead of answering that question, Pru went on. “Are you thinking that Nat would run away with you? He’d never leave his mother alone with no one to look out for her. He’d never want to leave his friends. His plan was always to bring Rebecca Hornby back here, remember?”
With a shrug, Elizabeth began tucking her escaped curls back into her cap. “Well, now he’s not thinking of her any longer. He’s thinking of me. So everything can change.”
“Not the First Laws.”
“They’re just made-up rules. Like the laws of the colony—no, not even that. Like the rules of a childhood game. I won’t live by them—not when they’d cost me the man I love, and not when there’s no good reason.”
“But there is good reason.” Pru was pleading. “We obey the First Laws to limit our powers. To understand that there should be limits. If we claimed ultimate power for ourselves—can you not see how wrong that would be?”
That made Elizabeth hesitate, but only briefly. Her anger was tempered, now that she better understood Pru’s fear. “I don’t want to claim ‘ultimate power.’ I only want to marry a man I actually love. That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”
Pru shrugged; her eyes welled with tears. “I’m scared for you. That’s all.”
“Don’t be.”
“Promise me you’ll think about what you’re doing. There are other men in the world, Elizabeth, but you’ll never have another family or another home.”
I can create my own family. I can make a new home.
Elizabeth only smiled. “I’ll think,” she said. She didn’t say about what.
In the afternoon, some of the men got into the whisky—which wasn’t unusual. Instead of shouting or getting into fights or making nuisances of themselves, though, one of them went and got his pipe, and before long they were all singing and clapping in the town square. This meant the same people who would once have scolded instead drew near, laughed, and even began to dance.
By the time Elizabeth reached the gathering, her hands chapped from work and her apron muddy, the revelry was in full swing. She saw little children hopping up and down, and Aunt Ruth dancing with one of the old men (who used a cane but was managing fairly well, considering). At the edge of the crowd, Pru danced with Jonathan Hale, both of them smiling into each other’s eyes as though nobody else existed in the world.
Nearby stood Nat Porter.
His face lit up when he caught a glimpse of her. “Elizabeth! There you are. You’ve been hiding from me lately, haven’t you?”
“Never,” she swore. “I never would.” Your wretch of a mother has been keeping us apart.
“Will you favor me?” Nat said, holding out his hand. Elizabeth’s heart sang as she took it, and they joined the dance.
The next few minutes were the closest thing to real happiness Elizabeth had ever known, or would ever know. Sunlight dappled the square and turned Nat’s hair to gold; his hands were warm on hers, and his smile
was for her alone. Her feet seemed to dance the steps without her having to think about it, or about anything else besides Nat being next to her. The beat of the music sped her pulse, and before Elizabeth knew it she was singing out loud, not caring if anyone else heard her terrible voice. What did it matter? The important thing was to sing.
When that song ended, people clapped, and Nat said, “You’re a lovely dancer.”
“As are you.” Should she not have called a boy lovely? He didn’t seem to mind. Elizabeth beamed up at him.
The men struck up another song, and Elizabeth knew Nat would again reach for her hand—but just then, the Widow Porter stepped out of the crowd. Her smile might have disguised her emotions well enough for anyone else, but Elizabeth could sense her fear.
“Nat, my dear boy,” Widow Porter said. “I know you’d rather be dancing with pretty girls, but even we old ladies sometimes like a lively tune.”
“Of course I’ll dance with you, Ma.” Nat gave Elizabeth a sunny smile before sweeping his mother into his arms and making her laugh as he twirled them both in a circle.
It wasn’t as though Elizabeth hadn’t made up her mind even before Widow Porter interrupted their dance. She had. But seeing how the world kept trying to pry her apart from Nat only strengthened her determination, and her impatience.
Let Pru quote her rules. Let Widow Porter try her distractions. Elizabeth meant to work her magic now, and all their efforts would never be able to stop her.
That night, when Aunt Ruth and the others had fallen asleep, Elizabeth pulled out her Book of Shadows.
Every witch created her own Book of Shadows, if she was lucky enough to have access to paper, and to have been educated enough to write down her spells. Elizabeth’s “book” was still mostly a collection of paper fragments she’d bound together with twine, but someday she intended to have it properly bound. She would turn it into a volume as real as any sermon book or Bible.
This was not merely a desire to keep her spells together and safe, though surely having a bound Book of Shadows would do that. Nor was it sentimentality, even though some of the scraps of paper were from Elizabeth’s childhood, and she could remember her mother’s hand on hers, helping her to form the letters. No, Elizabeth wanted a real Book of Shadows because—over the course of a witch’s life—her spell book could change. It could become more than a mere repository for magic spells; after decades of holding magic within its pages, the Book of Shadows could possess magic of its own. There were legends of witches old and powerful enough that their Books of Shadows even had a sort of consciousness. Those spell books weren’t merely reference sources; they were partners in a witch’s spellcasting.
Elizabeth was tired of people arguing with her and setting limits on her magic. She liked the idea of a partner, even if it were only a book.
Paper had been in short supply for a while. By now she was “crossing” spells—writing one atop the other, at an angle so that both sets of instructions remained legible. Elizabeth went over each and every page, from her oldest spells to her newest, searching for guidance.
I want to create a spell to inspire the deepest love, she thought—then hesitated. No. Even very deep love for a woman might not be enough to make a man leave the rest of his family and life behind, not if he felt he were needed at home.
Elizabeth focused anew. I want to create a spell to inspire . . . overwhelming passion. Uncontrollable desire. I want Nat to be unable to think of anything in the world but me. Love alone could not make him abandon Fortune’s Sound; only obsession could do that.
So she would create a spell of obsession.
What would be the right ingredients? Love, surely. That had to be a part of it; Elizabeth wanted that for herself, and besides, obsession without love could easily turn to hate.
Single-mindedness, too: Nat shouldn’t be able to worry about trivial details such as his work or his chores. He shouldn’t ask himself what the preacher would say, or what his mother might think. He shouldn’t so much as remember that a girl named Rebecca Hornby even existed.
Passion. She longed to know what Nat would be like, when he was overcome by passion. Would he be tentative, longing, almost shy but unable to keep himself from acting? Or would he be eager, even desperate to be with her? Just the daydreams made Elizabeth’s cheeks go hot.
Those were the three key elements—but Elizabeth felt as though something might still be lacking. He could love her, even love nothing in the world but her, and yet still fail to do what she needed him to do. If they didn’t elope from Fortune’s Sound almost immediately, Widow Porter would find a way to stop them.
Worse, Widow Porter would realize her son had been spelled, and it wouldn’t take long for her to realize who was responsible. Although Elizabeth no longer feared the so-called First Laws for their own sake, she feared Widow Porter’s magic. She wouldn’t hesitate to hurt Elizabeth if she thought Elizabeth had hurt her son.
But I’m not hurting him. I’m helping him, Elizabeth told herself. Nobody else in the world could ever love Nat as much as I do. Nothing else could ever make him as happy as I’ll make him. I just have to . . . show him the way.
So she would need a fourth element, one that would ensure Nat went along with her plan to elope.
It was impossible to weave such a specific suggestion into a spell. Elizabeth had often listened longingly to fairy tales in which wicked sorceresses were able to bewitch people into doing precisely what they wanted; real magic didn’t work that way. Spells would let you push someone in the right direction, but it was up to the witch to know precisely which way to push.
After some consideration, Elizabeth decided that the easiest way to be sure of Nat would be to make him highly suggestible. Ideally he would only be controlled by her suggestions, but probably he’d be slightly vulnerable to the words of others as well. She decided it didn’t matter. Nobody else would be likely to argue against their plan, especially not after Elizabeth told Nat to keep it secret.
Reenergized, Elizabeth began considering which ingredient would exactly fit each element of her spell. She wouldn’t be able to try this one out on Prudence Godwin ahead of time. She’d have to cast it for the first time on Nat himself. That meant nothing could go wrong.
She sat by the fire late into the night, creating what she already knew would be the most important spell of her entire life.
Some spells were more powerful under certain conditions—by the light of a full moon, for instance, or when performed by a witch who was great with child. Elizabeth’s instincts told her that this spell would respond best when the winds were fierce. So she waited, days and then weeks, for the stillness of early summer to give way to a breezy day.
Finally it happened.
The wind came in from the ocean, far more brisk than usual. It seemed to turn back time, transforming midsummer heat into the pleasantness of spring. Elizabeth made excuses to get out of watching her cousins, the better to stroll around town until she found Nat.
As it happened, he was working in the field, putting his muscle into keeping the plow down as his horse dragged it along. For a while she simply watched him, captivated by the strong lines of his body, and the way sweat made his white shirt stick to his well-formed back. Lovely though this was, she didn’t linger too long. They were alone. The time was right. She needed to act.
Ironically it was the pearl charm that she knew would help her. Widow Porter had given Elizabeth exactly the charm that would help her defeat the First Laws. Elizabeth liked imagining Widow Porter’s consternation if she ever realized that.
For now, though, she concentrated, took hold of the pearl charm, and thought of the ingredients.
A man so in love with a woman that he will change his whole life to be with her.
Someone hurting herself to attain a goal.
Pure lust that would not wait to be slaked.
A weathervane turning in the wind.
The breeze caught her hair, pulling it free from her cap. Eliza
beth didn’t tuck it in; she let it blow about wildly as she brought the right memories into her mind.
Nat smiling down at her, love for Rebecca Hornby glowing from him like light from a lantern, as he hinted about getting married.
Elizabeth driving her sewing needle into her flesh, again and again, not minding the blood because it was the price of keeping Rebecca far away from Nat.
The time she’d seen those two people in the barn, Mrs. Henson and a man Elizabeth hadn’t been able to see clearly—but not Mr. Henson—both of them grappling with each other hungrily, crying out as though in pain, and Elizabeth had flushed all over before she could make herself tiptoe out again.
The vane atop the Godwin home, carved in the shape of a cockerel, spinning madly in this morning’s breeze.
Something shuddered deep within Elizabeth—a sensation she found it difficult to describe or understand. But it reminded her of that night by the fire when she’d worked her first black magic, and that strange presence had told her it had been waiting for her all along. . . .
Then, in the distance, she saw Nat stop walking. As she focused on him, he turned his head toward her. Elizabeth knew the spell was drawing him toward her and no other. Even standing so far apart, she was able to glimpse his eyes, and smile.
The spell wasn’t instantaneous, she thought. Even black magic couldn’t cook up something as deep as overwhelming love on only a moment’s notice.
But she knew now it had worked. It had begun.
4
NAT BEGAN COMING BY AFTER DINNER EVERY NIGHT.
“Well, Nat, it certainly is good to see you again,” Aunt Ruth said, though her smile bore signs of strain. “But surely your mother must miss you at the house.”
“Ma’s fine,” Nat said absently. His eyes never left Elizabeth, who smiled demurely. She could afford to be demure now. In fact, it worked better if Aunt Ruth and the others had no idea Elizabeth welcomed Nat’s attentions. She simply poured Nat some cider and took her seat on the far side of the table, where she knew the firelight would catch the glints of red in her hair.